


Shenanigans

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack-ish, First Time, Fluffy, HP: EWE, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pregnancy, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, eighth year, porn without plot/plot what plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 02:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Of course Draco’s orgasm hits him right as Potter does the one thing he’s not supposed to do. Offuckingcourse.Or, the blood curse lingering over the Malfoys has landed on Draco, and he’s doomed to get knocked up by the first cock that gets inside his cunt. Just his luck that cock ends up beingHarry Potter’s.





	Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is probably the most crack-ish thing i've written in a long while, and this is pretty tame in terms of 'crack' so, i guess i'm just not much for whacky ideas. that said, this was a lot of fun to write! this is pretty much pure self indulgent porn, with some fluff thrown in. 
> 
> usual disclaimer that draco's trans experiences are based on that of my own and other ppl i know, so it may differ from yours. additional disclaimer that (as you probably could tell from the summary) this fic uses terms that may make some ppl uncomfortable. words like pussy and cunt are used to refer to draco's vagina, and since it's written from his view, please read it as those are the terms he's chosen for himself. 
> 
> big thanks to hannah (cathect) for betaing, as always! 
> 
> enjoy!

The first time Potter shoves his hand down Draco’s pants, he makes a strangled and perplexed noise. Granted, it’s still a noise laced with arousal, but it’s just this shy of _repulsed_ that Draco recoils. He presses himself away from Potter and up against the chilly stone wall but Potter doesn’t take his hand back and doesn’t run off.

Draco is about to make a snappish remark when Potter speaks first.

“You…” A beat, and Draco has half a mind to fill the mounting, tense silence. But that’s all he says, and then Potter is moving closer and slipping his hand beyond Draco’s prick—not even pausing to comment on the size—and right to where he’s wet and open. “Fuck.” Potter hisses, biting his bottom lip and exhaling shakily. He slides one finger between Draco’s lips and teases his sensitive entrance.

Draco opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all that tumbles out is a moan.

Potter mimics the sound before kissing him again, hard enough that Draco’s head hits the wall. Pain briefly blooms but Draco’s aching whine is lost in the kiss, into Potter’s mouth. They kiss until Draco is panting desperately, pain be damned. Potter still doesn’t run, doesn’t even bother to undo Draco’s trousers properly, and instead brings him off with two thick fingers knuckle deep in Draco’s cunt.

Draco watches Potter suck his fingers clean after and decides then and there that this might shape up to be his best year of school yet.

 

 

It’s like a switch has been flipped, and it’s all Draco and Potter can do to keep their hands off each other. Neither shies away from dragging the other down an abandoned corridor, or up to their dorms, or into the prefect’s bath. Draco isn’t quite sure how it’s so easy to go from hating Potter for years, to outright ignoring him for most of their eighth year, to shagging him senseless every chance he gets but—well, Draco’s hardly complaining.

 

 

“I want to fuck you,” Potter mumbles into Draco’s neck. His teeth skirt as gently as his breathy words and Draco can’t help his answering keen.

“You can’t.” Draco plants his hands on Potter’s chest and forces himself back. They’re both breathing heavy and flushed in the cheeks and Potters making that same aroused-strangled-perplexed sound again. “You can’t,” Draco says more firmly.

Potter sits up and the hand he’s got secured on Draco’s hip rubs in soothing circles. “Why not?” He asks. He’s not condescending or demanding, not anything more than curious, and Draco hates it as much as he appreciates it.

“Fuck, this isn’t the time.” Draco tries to shove at Potter’s chest and get back to snogging but Potter won’t stay down. “Why does it matter?” He bites out as his nails dig into Potter’s skin, even through the material of his tee.

Shame flickers over Potter’s expression. “No, it—it doesn’t. Sorry, Malfoy, forget it.” He slides both hands up Draco’s chest to divest him of his shirt. “C’mon, c’mere,” he urges while rolling his hips against Draco’s own. He bends forward and peppers apologetic and messy kisses over Draco’s exposed chest. His tongue skirts across a nipple and Draco shudders, arches into the touch.

Draco lets himself be dragged down for a kiss, even lets Potter work a hand between them to tease him over the fabric of his trousers. The moment Potter’s fingers dip lower, Draco’s wrenched out of the pleasure.

“No, fuck. _Fuck_ you, Potter, now I’ve _got_ to tell you.”

Potter doesn’t look all that ashamed; only frightened, and still curious, and definitely still aroused.

Draco sits back and tilts his head to the ceiling. He counts backwards from one hundred before he’s calm enough to speak (he makes it to eighty-two, which he thinks isn’t all that bad). “There’s a blood curse.”

That gets Potter’s attention and he sits up again, nearly dislodging Draco from his lap in the process. “What?” His hand curls from Draco’s hip to cup the small of his back and keep him steady.

Draco sighs. “It’s a blood curse, on the Malfoy line. It ensures that regardless of the actions of the person, an heir is sure to be produced.” Draco lets his gaze drop absently to his own groin, unable to help comparing himself to Potter. Draco’s prick is too small to press at the placket of his trousers, though he can feel it swollen between his thighs. In contrast, Potter’s cock is clearly straining against the zipper of his muggle jeans, and envy blooms brief and burning inside Draco’s chest.

Potter bites his lip again, and Draco looks up only because Potter tilts him by the chin with a delicate touch. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. He still sounds sorry, and his cock is still hard, and Draco knows he could let the conversation drop and they’d both get happy endings tonight.

Despite that, Draco shakes off the lingering sense of dysphoria along with his nerves. “It varies from person to person. Essentially, it just makes the Malfoy in question… especially.” Draco’s nerves come flooding back. “Fertile, I suppose.”

Potter hums, prompting him to continue.

“My father, for example. Perfectly heterosexual, perfectly pureblood, and perfectly, purely _male_.” Draco realizes the turn of conversation probably means he won’t get to come tonight, and neither will Potter, but he feels better with each word he gets off his chest. “For him it was simple. Just, fast swimmers. I guess you could call it.”

Potter laughs under his breath and Draco can’t find it in himself to scowl. It’s a bit funny, at least until Draco remembers that he has to explain the curse’s effect on him.

“Because I was not—because—?” Draco keeps faltering and stopping, starting, stopping, starting, until the words are bursting at the seam of his lips. “The blood curse makes it so that the first person to fuck me in my cunt will knock me up.” The words come out in a rush. “To produce an heir. Because, evidently, the curse knew I was bent before I did—or maybe the curse didn’t expect me to be a boy and thought I’d end up a lovely heterosexual woman, but.” He shrugs, finally.

Potter’s eyes widen again and this time Draco finds it in himself to laugh. “That’s… that’s a hell of a curse.”

Draco shrugs and tries for an air of casualness. “That’s why, though,” he says in a firm tone. “That’s why you can’t fuck me, not there.” His heart pounds at the foolish words, _not there_ , like he didn’t just say it far more lewdly a few moments prior.

Potter nods along, looking thoughtful and considering. It’s a look that throws Draco, even though he knows by now that Potter is far from barbaric. It takes a few minutes, long enough for anxiety to flare up again in Draco’s heart, for Potter to speak. “What about your arse?”

Draco curses the flush to his cheeks. “No rules against that.” His arousal returns in a dizzying rush, and he falls forward and presses Potter against the sheets. Potter’s hands move immediately to cup Draco’s arse and his hips roll in lazy, tantalizing circles once more.

Potter grins. “Good.”

 

 

“What about my tongue?” Potter asks a few nights later when they’ve got the dorm to themselves.

(‘To themselves’ is being generous; it isn’t as though Dean and Seamus and Blaise and Ron had been kind enough to leave him and Potter alone. More like Potter had cast a strong _muffliato_ along with a locking charm to keep everyone else out.)

“Huh?” Draco asks. He blinks owlishly and props himself up on his elbows. “What did you say, Potter?” He’s nude from the waist down and he’d been thoroughly distracted by Potter lavishing his hips and thighs in sweet kisses and harsh lovebites. His mind is hazy, and it takes a few moments of blinking for Potter to come back into focus between Draco’s thighs.

“What about my tongue?” He asks and lets his breathe fan over Draco. He licks his lips and the tease of wet heat forces a shiver through Draco. Potter draws a fingertip in a single line down the wet, spread lips of Draco’s cunt. “Can I taste you?” Rather than waiting for a reply, Potter darts his tongue out to lap at the seam of Draco’s pussy. Slowly, still half-heartedly waiting for a reply, Potter’s tongue slides between his lips and rubs over his slick hole.

Draco falls back with a groan and bucks his hips instead of answering.

 

 

“You look good like this, y’know?” Potter whispers in his ear one night. They’d none-too-subtly slipped into Potter’s four poster bed, charmed it all shut with sticking spells. They took pity on their friends with another well-placed _muffliato_ , because the last thing either of them wanted was to deal with people’s whining, and got to business. Business being Potter’s cock in Draco’s arse and Potter’s fingers in Draco’s pussy.

They’re on their sides and Draco feels sufficiently pinned by Potter’s weight. He’s just barely pushed forward so that his chest skims the sheets and the thread count rasps over his nipples on every thrust. Potter is hot and sweaty against his back, and his relentlessly pounding cock is sufficiently distracting. Even so, Draco still manages to hiss back, “like _what_?”

“Fucked out,” Potter hums. He moves his fingers faster and crooks them just right so that Draco cries out. “Taking me in both holes, yeah?” His thumb skirts over Draco’s smaller, swollen cock and wrings another moan from him. Potter secures his mouth to Draco’s neck and sucks, hard, this time leaving Draco breathless and only able to pant for air. “All mine.”

Draco tries to squirm away but Potter only tightens his hold. It’s there, held down and sore and full of _Potter_ that Draco comes with a seething whimper.

 

 

“This is a bad idea,” Draco pants even as he rolls his hips. His trousers are locked uncomfortably around his knees, and his silk shirt is sticking to his sweaty skin. Potter is similarly half-dressed, panting just as loud as he fucks his cock between Draco’s slick thighs. “A _really_ bad idea, Potter.”

“I think it’s brilliant.” He slows his thrusts so that his prick drags through Draco’s folds, never drawing back quite far enough to tease Draco’s hole. The extra lube they conjured is smeared between Draco’s thighs and what had started as mostly innocent pseudo-fucking is coming perilously close to the real thing. Draco can’t deny it feels good: the brief friction of Potter’s cock skimming Draco’s, the faintly rebellious feeling of being so close to triggering the blood curse but not quite there.

“Of course you would, you fucking berk!” Draco’s insult lilts into a moan, one that’s eventually muffled as he shoves his face against the pillow. “You’re a tease, that’s what you are.” He does his best to angle his hips in a way that keeps Potter’s cock just far enough apart to give Draco some semblance of peace of mind.

Potter just hums, pleased as punch. He thrusts faster and shivers each time his cock brushes through Draco’s slick, or along the underside of his cock. The bed rocks with their motions and then it all happens so fast. Draco props up on his hands again to breathe better— his knees spread a bit too wide to relieve the aching tension in them from staying still so long— Potter pulls back just far enough that the angle of his prick shifts _just_ so—

On Potter’s next thrust forward, Draco realizes immediately that something is very, _very_ wrong. But also so fucking _right_. He hears Potter curse under his breath but his hips don’t slow, and he pulls out only to push back in harder, faster. He moans, and it sounds far away to Draco’s ears, as he sinks into Draco’s soaking wet cunt over and over.

It figures, of course, that Draco’s orgasm would hit him _right_ as Potter does the one thing he’s not supposed to do.

Draco shrieks, no denying it, and idly he realizes he hasn’t even touched his cock. He clenches tight around Potter and moans endlessly. Hardly of his own accord—or so Draco tells himself—he starts to fuck back against Potter, trying to get him deeper, trying to ride the waves of pleasure. It works, too well, and Draco lets out a sob as Potter’s prick fills him up perfectly, tipping him over the edge of orgasm into blissful oversensitivity.

Potter takes to it like a fish to water and within moments he’s coming inside Draco and thrusting with abandon. He fucks his come into Draco deeper and groans at the sensation. His fingers flex on Draco’s hips to the point of bruising, and his thrusts continue even as the pulsing of his dick slows. He keeps going until he wrings another, shivering orgasm from Draco (this one weaker and softer but no less wonderful) and eventually they collapse in a heap on the bed.

“Fuck.” Draco groans into the pillow. It’s already smeared with his spit and although no one can see it, he makes a disgruntled face against the damp material.

“Think we just did,” Potter teases. He tilts the slowly to the side, and Draco at least appreciates the pressure off his knees. They’re both sweaty and tangled up in each other and their clothes, but it’s marginally more comfortable like this. Even with panic rising in Draco’s chest. “Brilliant,” Potter adds after they’ve settled.

Draco whips the pillow around to smack him in the face, deliberately aiming for the wet spot to hit Potter’s cheek. “Tosser. I’m serious.” He gestures to where Potter’s softening prick is still inside him, along with his come. Suppressing a shiver, Draco manages to maintain his scowl long enough to say, “You did the _one_ thing you weren’t supposed to.”

Potter’s whole body goes tight. And not in the same way as when he comes—no, not even close.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Draco laughs tonelessly.

 

 

Nothing happens.

In several ways, nothing happens.

The world doesn’t immediately end, for one. They stop shagging for two straight weeks; that’s another way nothing happens. A third way is how Draco _doesn’t_ end up pregnant, despite checking every single bloody day. He thanks his aptitude for charms that he can cast the necessary spells on himself—the last thing he’d want to do would be visiting Pomfrey constantly. The last thing he wants is for anyone to even bloody know about this predicament.

But again, it’s all moot, because _nothing happens_.

 

On the fifteenth day of nothing, he corners Potter in a side corridor and kisses him. “Nothing’s happened,” he murmurs.

Potter’s hands snap to his hips. “Yeah?” The bruises have faded but by now it feels a bit like Draco’s hips were molded to fit in Potter’s palms.

Draco grins.

 

 

They get a bit reckless after that.

Okay, more than a bit.

They get _really_ reckless.

 

 

Draco whines and claws at the bedsheets as though he’ll actually be able to turn over. Potter’s hands on his hips are yet again bruising tight and he keeps saying things, sweet and lovely things that are as much a delight to hear as they are a pain. Draco can only close his eyes against the onslaught, since Potter had _insisted_ on fucking face to face this time.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, you don’t have to charm me, I’m already in your fucking bed.” Draco snaps as he pushes at Potter’s chest to no avail. Granted, he’s not trying very hard, but still.

Potter doesn’t relent: not in his closeness, not in his thrusts, not in his words. His chest hair skims across the peach fuzz littering Draco’s own skin, and their nipples touch every odd thrust or so, and it’s the brief catches of electricity that make Draco’s brain foggier than anything. Ever since the first time he let Potter into his cunt, things have been changing; _they’ve_ been changing. Less and less was Draco on his hands and knees, no matter how much he insisted he enjoyed that position, and more often was he in Potter’s lap, or like this—splayed out for the taking underneath him.

“Love you like this, love seeing all of you.” Potter, if possible, gets closer. He peppers kisses between his words and lavishes them both across Draco’s skin. Over his cheeks and his lips and chin, words and slightly chapped lips dropped kisses. “You feel so good around me, so pretty like this.” He drops a hand between them and teases Draco’s cock in time to his thrusts. Draco’s so wet, each thrust is making sopping, obnoxious sounds and Draco can only moan in response. The lewd evidence of his arousal is nothing compared to Potter’s endless stream of lovely words.

It carries on like that until Draco feels tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He breathes out a half-moan, half-sigh of relief when Potter starts to stiffen and his thrusts go uneven.

“Gonna come, Draco,” Potter grunts as he strokes and thrusts faster.

To his credit, Draco tries to protest; he pushes again at Potter’s chest, tries to squirm away, even murmurs hurriedly, “no, you _can’t_.” Again, though, he doesn’t try very hard. He shivers as he feels Potter’s prick pulse; each throb is accompanied by a burst of wetness, filthy and addicting. Draco can’t help but revel in the sensation, the same sort of rebellious feeling except magnified because they really shouldn’t be doing this.

Draco whines and his hips bounce with the force of his own orgasm. Harry keeps thrusting, eager to please, and the head of his cock rubs relentlessly over the spot in Draco that makes his head spin. Draco comes so hard he doesn’t bother keeping quiet, even as _“Harry”_ slips past his lips.

 

“You called me by my name.”

Draco mumbles.

“I feel as though that’s significant.”

Draco turns slightly in Potter’s arms. “What?”

“You called me ‘Harry,’” he says again.

Draco narrows his eyes. “So? That _is_ your name.”

Potter frowns. “Yeah, but we’ve—we’ve never done that.”

“You called me Draco right before coming inside me, I think I ought to be allowed to call you Harry.” Draco turns again so his back is against Potter’s chest. He doesn’t squirm out of the grasp, though. Can’t bring himself to leave the sticky, sated warmth of Potter’s arms or his bed or any of it.

Potter’s arms tighten around him. “Stop trying to pick a fight, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” He says the words firmly but softly, spoken into Draco’s thoroughly mussed hair like wind through the trees.

Draco relaxes minutely. He lays his hands over Potter’s arms where they’re wrapped around him. He traces a few small scars, maps out a couple moles. “What are you saying then?” He asks, tired and wrung out.

“This changes things, doesn’t it?”

Draco sighs. “I think things changed the minute I let you fuck me without casting a contraceptive charm first.” He looks over at his shoulder and smiles weakly, nervously.

Harry’s eyes widen. “They have those?”

Draco groans and hides his face against the pillow.

 

 

They hold hands as they walk into the Great Hall the next morning, and it’s clear that absolutely no one is surprised by this turn of events.

“’Bout time, mate,” is all Weasley says with a polite nod at Draco.

Harry beams and Draco can’t bring himself to be even a little annoyed.

 

 

Not for a few days, at least.

 

“Potter!”

The eighth-year common room falls dead silent and Harry looks up, stricken.

“I _told_ you this would happen!” Draco shouts. He ignores the blatantly confused stares of their classmates and watches the realization bloom in Harry’s eyes. Beside him, Granger and Weasley look perplexed, and the matching expressions of surprise would be a little amusing at any other time.

“Oh, fuck.” Harry is on his feet instantly, but he freezes shortly after that.

A brief moment of triumph is overcome with panic. “Nothing to see here!” Draco calls out while trying to tame the shrill edge of his voice. He finally stalks up to Harry and takes him by the arm. “We need to talk,” he hisses. He’s keenly aware that Granger is still staring at him, scrutinizing, whereas Weasley looks torn between uncertain curiosity and tentative anger. Draco scowls, even knowing it won’t help matters.

Harry goes along willingly and waves off his friends’ concern. It takes an extra moment to reassure Weasley, and Granger is ultimately the one to tame the redhead. Harry doesn’t shake out of Draco’s grip. He simply follows Draco out of the common room, through the corridors, until they’re out on the grounds.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks quietly, sometime after they’ve sat down on the grass. It’s warm and dry and soothing underneath them. Draco runs a free hand over the blades of grass and relishes the softness, and refuses to let go of Harry’s wrist. Not that Harry seems to mind.

“Positive.” Draco closes his eyes. “Even floo’d over to Mungos.” He pauses. “McGonagall knows, by the way.”

“Fuck.”

Draco laughs, though it cracks in the middle.

“Well, we… we knew this could happen.”

Draco nods. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“Me too. It’s my fault too, Draco.”

Draco doesn’t bother agreeing or disagreeing; there’s no point, he tells himself. Instead, he steels himself and looks up. “What are we going to do?” Draco asks softly. He’s not surprised when Harry finally slips his wrist from Draco’s grasp. He’s a little surprised, enough to gasp, when Harry links their fingers instead.  

“School year is almost out, I figure we find a place together.” Harry says it with a nod to himself.

“You want to actually… want to do this?”

“Want to raise a kid with you? It’s not exactly what I had in mind for life,” Harry grins, a touch uneasy. “Parents under twenty and all. But, s’like I said, isn’t it? We knew it could happen, neither one of us tried to prevent it, after that first time. I’m not—I don’t regret it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Draco doesn’t say anything but the stuttering breath he takes speaks volumes. He licks his lips and tries to school his expression into something less on the brink of tears, or perhaps spontaneous confessions of love.

“So, yeah, Draco. I want to raise the kid with you. We’ll figure it out, won’t we?” Harry lets go of Draco’s hand and slowly, carefully slides his arm around Draco’s shoulders instead.

Draco nods and lets Harry tug him closer. “Yeah.” He gulps heavily and lets himself lean against Harry. “We will,” he agrees.

 

 

 

 

_**Epilogue** _

“I'm telling you, I've _been_ telling you, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, Potter.”

“Back to Potter, are we?” Ron retorts cheerfully. His arms are loaded up with boxes as he hobbles up the steps to Grimmauld Place; the moment he’s over the threshold he levitates the boxes away, all under Draco’s watchful eye. “What’ve you done now, Harry?” Ron asks, positively delighted.

“I haven’t done anything!” Harry calls from the dining room.

“Git!” Draco hollers back as he braces a hand against his stomach. He leans against the back of the couch and wonders why he’s standing at all, given how much his feet hurt and how tired he is already.

Ron grins at him, and Draco _wants_ be annoyed by it, but he can’t shift his irritation away from Harry—Harry bloody Potter who got Draco _pregnant_. Besides, Ron tends to take Draco’s side in things like this, and Draco rather enjoys that. Not that Harry doesn’t take his side, but that’s beside the point. Ron stretches, bones in his back cracking, before he speaks again. “Lookin’ good, Malfoy. Baby is doing alright, I take it?”

“ _Babies_ are just fine,” Draco grits out. “Bab _ies_ are even more than fine, in fact. Bab _ies_ are healthy as can be!”

Harry finally reappears from the kitchen with a mug of tea. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry for knocking you up, I love you very much, please do shut up now.” He kisses Draco’s cheek. It soothes some of the irrational anger burning in Draco’s chest—or is that heartburn? He very honestly can’t tell—and Draco accepts the tea without complaint.

Draco scowls, of course, but he doesn’t grumble as he takes a long, wonderful sip of the warm tea. He glares at Harry and Ron for a long, quiet moment. “Don’t break anything.” He nods to the boxes that are still outside. Then, he turns curtly on a heel and hurries up the stairs. He’s really only able to hobble, and immediately regrets not just moving to the sitting room. As he takes the steps slowly, he listens to the conversation continue downstairs.

“What’s gotten into him?” Ron asks, equal parts amused and concerned.

Harry sighs. “Appointment today. It’s twins.” Draco can hear the pleased lilt in his voice, even if it’s layered over an undercurrent of exhaustion. “They’ve started moving, keepin’ him up at night.”

Ron laughs. “Twins?” He asks in disbelief. Draco pauses on the first landing to catch his breath and reward himself with tea. “That’s brilliant! Er, I mean. Not the keeping him up part.” Draco can practically see Ron’s sheepish grin, and Harry’s own matching expression, and can’t even begin to loathe the fondness he feels.

Ron continues. “It’s kinda what babies do, though, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s a lot different when the buggers are still _in_ Draco.”

“They’re all doing good, though? S’what Draco said.”

“Oh yeah, the healers said everything is right on track. I guess the blood curse keeps them all safe and healthy. Doesn’t mean it’s not hell on Draco, though.”

Ron hums, a considering and thoughtful noise. “Least he’s healthy, though. That’s what matters.” Before Harry could reply, Draco hears a faint smack that he assumes is Ron’s hand clapping onto Harry’s shoulder. “You gotta come by the Burrow soon, mate. Mum is just about beside herself waiting. Between you n’me, I don’t think you’ll have to ever actually buy clothes for the baby. Er, bab _ies_.” He amends. “Bloody hell, I’ll have to tell mum so there’s enough onesies for all of ‘em.”

Draco leans against the wall and sips at his slowly cooling tea as he idly listens to the rest of their conversation. A few more niceties, Harry half-heartedly warning Ron off knocking Hermione up any time soon, then quiet, friendly goodbyes. There’s the roar of the floo moments after their last words, and then a heavy silence blooms.

“Draco?” Harry calls up the stairs. Draco looks down to see him waiting at the bottom step, staring. “More tea?” He asks as he starts up the stairs.

Draco holds up a hand to halt him and makes the precarious trek down instead. He takes the steps slowly, probably more so than really necessary, but the knowledge that there’s _two_ lives growing inside him, not just one, has thrown his own world off kilter once more. He keeps one hand curled loosely around the bannister to help him down, and doesn’t resist Harry’s open arms once they’re off the staircase.

“More tea,” Draco agrees as he lets Harry lead him toward the kitchen again. He leans against the counter as he watches Harry busy about getting more tea, doctoring it up just the way Draco likes—sweet but still dark, only a touch of cream alongside several healthy scoops of sugar. “Thank you.” He says softly as he takes the mug from Harry once more.

Harry smiles at him, and Draco takes in how tired he looks, but how happy.

After a long sip Draco finally speaks. “You really don’t regret it?” He feels impossibly vulnerable as he lets the words go, and drops a hand to the top of his stomach for comfort. The heat of the firm skin soothes him somewhat, even as a faint kick against his bladder torments him briefly.

“Not at all,” Harry says with conviction. He corners Draco against the counter, hands on either side of the blond’s widened hips. Draco’s stomach brushes Harry’s, and it’s a little funny looking Draco thinks. “It’s… It’s unexpected, _again_. But I don’t regret, not for a second, alright?”

Draco nods and sets his mug aside. It takes some maneuvering he’s not very good at with so much weight at his front, but Harry lets him twist and turn until the cup is on the countertop and Draco is shuffling closer. Harry’s arms wind around Draco slowly, and Draco does the same around Harry’s waist.

“Good,” he says. “I’d have to hex you if you did.”

Harry’s laugh is soft and warm through Draco’s hair. “I’d expect nothing less.”  


End file.
